Page 51 of Worst Nanny Ever (Babes of Brewing #2)

“Let the tour commence,” he says, his eyes skating over the full-body sewing mannequin in the corner of the living room with my pin-studded, half-finished creation on it. “You gave it a smiley face.”

“Most of them don’t have heads, but this one did,” I say. “It felt a little cruel not to give it a face. Her name is Thea Threadsalot, and I love her.”

“I’m jealous.”

“Are you going to take a swing at her too?” I ask.

My gaze drops reflexively to his busted knuckles.

I make a face and rush over to the freezer, grabbing the first thing I find that will work as an ice pack.

I stride back to him, nearly tripping over one of the adorable dog stuffies Travis got me, and hand him the bag of frozen strawberries. “For your knuckles.”

He grins at me, some of the heaviness leaving his face. “Don’t you have a resealable plastic bag?”

I start to wilt, feeling dumb, and take a step toward the freezer, but he stops me with a light hand on my wrist and takes the bag from me .

“Thanks for taking care of me, Hannah,” he says gently. “Let’s finish the tour.”

“There’s a pile of clothes in a basket on my bedroom floor, but they’re clean,” I say. “I just haven’t gotten around to folding them yet.”

“Understandable. Is that why you invited me over?” He gives me a lopsided smile. “To fold your clothes?”

“You invited yourself.” I weave my arm through his again. “Now, let me show you to Clothes Mountain.”

“Please do,” he says. “I’ve heard great things.”

I open the door, feeling a creeping self-consciousness as he takes in the small, cramped space, so different from his huge bedroom with the massive king-sized bed.

The mountain of clothes sits at the foot of the bed, barely contained by a broken laundry basket.

Usually, I pay attention to the things in here that I like, the colorful quilt and prints on the walls, but that laundry basket is like a stain on my existence.

A sign that I could use a few crash courses on adulting and maybe an ADHD diagnosis and some Adderall.

I dart a nervous look at him.

“I told you I like cleaning,” he says with a smile that suggests he knows exactly what’s going through my head. He surprises me by reaching down to lift a shirt out of the laundry pile—his Garbage Fire shirt. “Do you have my polo shirt in here too?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling a pinch of self-consciousness. “I like wearing them. They’re comfortable.”

“Good.”

“Let’s move on from the laundry. It’s embarrassing.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he says, folding the Garbage Fire shirt and setting it on the bed. “And I like that you’ve been wearing my shirts. But I’m going to fold all of this before I leave, because I want to leave my mark on your space, the same way you’ve left your mark on mine. ”

I push up onto my toes and kiss him.

“I like it in here,” he says, grinning. “It smells even more like you than my bedroom. And the last room in your apartment?”

“You seriously want me to escort you to the bathroom?”

“I want the whole Hannah’s apartment experience.”

Laughing, I swing the bathroom door open and wave him in.

He enters the tiny room, and his gaze catches on the vanity.

My big makeup kit is stowed in the closet, but I keep a few other toiletries out for daily use.

They’re untidily set out on the sink, of course—some mascara, concealer, powder foundation, eyeliner, and lipstick, plus my hair-cutting scissors.

He turns to me, filling the space so utterly the breath leaves my lungs. It’s a heady experience, having him here in my space. Letting him into this part of me.

His gaze finds mine. “I want you to cut my hair.”

I gasp. “You mean…”

“I’m not hiding anything anymore. I’ve decided I’m done with that. It’s only caused me problems and grief. I want you to do it. If you’re willing.”

I comb my fingers through the longer fringe in the front, then push it up. “You want to show everyone your heart?”

He smiles slowly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

“Good, we’re doing this. Take off your shirt.”

He sets down the strawberries to unbutton and remove his shirt. Then he pulls off his undershirt. I gasp at the sight of the swollen red marks on his skin where that asshole punched him.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, gently running my fingers over it.

He laughs as he folds both shirts and sets them on the towel shelf next to the tub-shower combo. “It does when you do that. Are you going to cut my hair in here?”

There’s barely room to move, let alone create a masterpiece. “No,” I say, grabbing my scissors, a straight comb and a spray bottle I use for my hair. “Let’s go in the living room. ”

He returns the strawberries to the freezer, then helps me set out a clean sheet. I put a chair on it and close the shades. There’s barely enough room for the setup, and I have to move my stuffed dogs and a few stray shoes.

“Looks like you’re setting up a murder room,” Travis teases as I guide him into the chair.

“I take my haircutting very seriously,” I say, running my fingers through his hair.

He closes his eyes for a second at my touch. “That feels good.”

I decide to make it feel even better and pull off my shirt.

“Fuck, Hannah,” Travis says, grinning at me. “Please tell me you don’t do this every time you cut someone’s hair.”

“Lucky you, you get special treatment.” I throw my shirt, and then my bra, onto the couch. He leans forward to kiss the side of my breast, then takes my nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue and his teeth before moving to the next.

It feels mind-bendingly good, even more so because we’re out here in my living room. My space, just like when we were at Big Catch the other night. I like having him in all of my spaces. I weave my hands into his hair, holding him close for a moment, and then I make myself step back.

“You’re going to have to look but not touch,” I say in my best sultry voice. “Do you think you can be a good boy?”

“No,” he says, grinning.

I put my hand on my hip. “What if I accidentally cut your ear off?”

“You’re the one who has to look at me.”

Rolling my eyes, I run my hands through his hair again, lifting it up. Plotting. Then I realize I’m going to need a step stool. He’s taller sitting than I am standing.

“Are you going to make fun of me if I take out my step stool? ”

“No, I think I’ll enjoy the view.”

I bring it out, and seconds later, I make the first cut.

Travis watches with something like disbelief as the first lock of black hair falls down.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask, even though it’s obviously too late.

“Your tits are pressing against the back of my head. Right here, right now, I’m completely happy.”